Good Day
by AndiFO
Summary: Tony's struggles through a dark secret that still haunts him even after 25 years......Implied mature sitations. May be pretty dark. New Chapter!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything that has to do with Iron Man, the movie, the comics, Marvel, or any other goodies which I enjoy. I make no money.

**Note:** I put the rating as M on the story because it does imply something very mature. It_ can_ be left to the imagination, as I never explicitly state it, but I'm sure most would agree, as I, that it kind of implies non-con situations. If it is not your cup a tea, do not read it...I guess, though from this you could interpret it as somethng else. This is the first fic I'm posting on the internet. The first one I've actually completed. If you enjoy it, please do review, takes a few seconds, if you ddn't, well any critizism would be nice. I don't acutally write too often, but some things do inspire a spark in my creative juices. OK, long rant. I hope you guys enjoy it.

**Note #2:** I changed the rating to T. I really don't feel its strong enough to really warrant the M that I had originally put it at. I initially planned on this being only a one-shot, but my dear friend has been convincing me to continue, and since the muse for this story just won't leave me, I may eventualy write more (then the rating may need changing again, maybe not though). Ok well don't forget to **REVIEW**, otherwise I'll think you guys don't care for it and it may discourage me from writing more. Thanks! :)

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The look they cast each other from afar is not unlike one they've ever given each other before. It lets the other know where the other one stands in the room. Not just geographically, of course, but generally in life. In their every day fucked up life. The elder shadows down the younger prodigal son, not his son, and reminds him that despite his wealth, his business, his genius, and his image, to him he's still the same over-grown child who he can bend with just the snap of the finger, or the stroke of….something else.

The younger's bleeding eyes foreshadow the night that rests upon them, for no matter how many one night stands, drunken hangovers, or featured playboy models he may lay with, in the end he always crawls back to the one person whom never seems to care whether he even comes or not. He never asks, never calls, at least not for those reasons. But then again he never has to. The younger fiend doesn't understand why he's so drawn to this madness. He doesn't claim any retribution but somehow-maybe it's the years of continual measure, of countless nights of waking up and not remembering how he got there or who he was even with, he thinks maybe he should.

Maybe it's just become habit; he started too young, he thinks, too young to realize the inappropriateness and the illegalities of it all. By now though, it doesn't make much difference. What's done is done. What's there to be fucked with, already has been, and it's already too fucked up to change.

All this crosses his mind in that one split second when their eyes meet, in that room where to everyone else all they see is all the money, all the power, all the carelessness. A life to admire, they believe. But in that very second, as in every second of every minute of his life for that matter, his eyes tell a different story. They project it on a big screen, theatre, no IMAX even, screaming, jolting, running, crying, and praying. No one ever sees his film, they just see the shiny cover, they don't know the real genre, or they real rating. They're not even close.

He smiles at the next uncaring, shallow face. They're all the same to him really, just a blur in his mind. They're all looking for the same thing, asking the same questions, wrong questions really, but if they did ask the right ones, would he even answer truthfully? Probably not, he thinks. If he could, he wouldn't wait for them to ask them, he'd just simply tell them. He'd tell everybody, and then this, he, his life, his mind and his sanity, would not be anywhere near where it was today.

If he could have spoken-not sure if he even ever wanted to- he would have done it twenty years ago, no twenty five years ago, or maybe even more. At this point he doesn't even remember, he thinks maybe it's because he doesn't really want to. He knows it.

He's a psychiatrist's dream.

Billionaire playboy, smart, attractive, gets any woman he wants, charming. He could convince a salesman to buy a batch of his own product. That's what the world uses to describe him, and on good days, those are the same adjectives he thinks for himself. On the bad days, however, most days, even the mornings or the nights of those "good days", he uses different words when thinking of himself. Coward, liar, damaged, head case, nymph, drunk, and those are just to name a few to go along with fucked up and the good ole crazy. Yeah, crazy is the perfect word for him. Only crazy would define someone who threads back, right back step for step, to place that hurts him most, every time. Not even the most daring of stunt men or athletes would get right back on the horse that knocked him over and broke their neck. But he does. He jumps right back on that horse, that dreaded horse who no one else wants to ride but who no one can take their eyes off. And each time he gets on that horse he falls right back off, and he breaks his neck, and his leg, and his shoulder, and just about every literal and metaphorical bone in his body. He's past the stage of paraplegic, and on to becoming a walking miracle, but right back on that horse he jumps….because he needs it.

He needs it like a drug addict needs another shot of heroin even knowing that the last one almost killed him. He knows no better. He can't recall anything better. Rehab is no option, and the worst part is that he's the best kind of drug addict. The family man with a wife and kids, a dog even, living in the big house, perfect yard where all the neighbors know him, moving on up in the office, the kind in which the wife, children, neighbors, boss, never suspect his hidden late night secret, because each morning he gets right back up again and puts a smile on his face and pretends nothing ever happened, and no one ever dented him; not a scratch on his armor.

These are the circling thoughts that go over his mind constantly. He's had many decades to think them through and get them right. He should write a book he thinks, a memoir maybe; a fable. At least that's what they will think when they read it. Because it couldn't possibly be possible, under all their watching eyes?! In this great country, this great tragedy? No of course not. And that's why he's yet to tell them, if he ever does. Let them keep their hero.

He's talking now to someone, an older woman. A friend of his mothers, he thinks. He remembers because he's always noted the imperfection of her nose surrounded by the faux pretenses of the rest of her body. She looks at him the way a grandmother sees her grandchildren. Her frozen eyes and frozen smile show a hint of compassion. She remembers him when he was young boy she says, she may have 

said more but his mind is barely registering. He just laughs and gives her a witty reply. Young boy he thinks, but never innocent. Those eyes aren't meant for him.

The night is gearing towards the end and he finds himself growing anxious. The control he barely once had over himself is wearing thin now and he doesn't know whether he'll retire to his own home, to his own bed, surrounded by a pseudo sense of comfort, or if his drug will call out to him and he'll chase it like a dog released from its leash. He plans to do the former, he hopes it's the former, but he knows himself well enough that that's unlikely.

The dinner party is wearing thin of people too, and he finds it easy to catch the eyes of his brute. His eyes are always watching him, his mental prowl worst than any telepath. He calls on to him through his mind, or maybe it's his own mind thinking he is. At this point he's far too deep to even consider the difference. He looks away quickly, however, not wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt, though inadvertently showing him just who subdued he's become.

The minutes tick by and world evolves around him. His best friend, his acquaintances, his assistant, have all come up to him and said their good-byes and he's replied without thinking. He's spoken to everyone, made small talk, after-all this party was thrown by his own company. Another one of those seasonal get-togethers done in order to make sure they're all still rubbing elbows with the right persons. Everyone is captivated, except the one person who captivates him the most, and yet it all perfectly makes sense.

He opens his already opened eyes to see everything clearly and he's come to realize that he's now the only one left in the room. He's surprised to find that he didn't even try to pretend by charming someone to go back home with him. No, this time he's all alone, and no one is left waiting for him. He checks his watch to find its way past midnight. Early for him, late for everyone else. He walks towards the exit knowing his driver would be there, every cell in his being is telling him to get in the car and go back home. Go back to his room, his bed, his pseudo comfort. He gets in the back of the car, sure of his intentions, sure that this time he would be strong, un-cowardly, and not give him. Today would be a "good day". The streets blur by unmoving his thoughts. His hands are balled in fists, and his jaw is clenched and tense. He's determined. Today will be a good day, he keeps repeating.

He looks ahead and finds his driver staring back at him.

"You ok, Mr. Stark?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Just drive me home please."

He's stern, he even remembers speaking the words out loud this time, and everyone knows saying things out loud makes things better, or so they say, but his heart is pounding, stronger than he's ever felt it before. Stronger than the last time, or the time before, stronger than the first, but not as strong as the next time he knows.

The gates are opening and he sees his house. His pseudo comfort. The car slowly drives up to the front of the house and comes to a halt. The driver is waiting patiently for him to exit so that he can go to his own home, his own comfort. Real this time. He steps out of the car and hears a soft bell-like rattle. He looks down at his hand and finds his keys in his hand shaking. He turns back, smiles at the driver and quickly closes the door. He's entering the house through the garage. He's taking every step towards the door that leads to the main house. His steps feel heavy, like quicksand, or like swimming against the current. He's reaching the door, only a few steps away. Just open the door, close it, and lock it til morning, he tells himself. And just as he's reaching for the handle, key in hand and ready for his good day, he turns, looks, yearns, and starts walking in the opposite direction.

This time his feet are almost flowing. Gliding across the floor and it feels like he's running. He doesn't know. He doesn't see. This is the time of the night that he usually no longer lives. He doesn't have to think about his actions, his body just moves, detached from his conscious mind. He's in a car again, but this time he's the one driving. The ignition turns, the car comes to life, and he's off. Again. For the hundredth, or thousandth, or millionth time. He's lost count. And it's better this way, to not know. It's happening again, and it will endlessly, until something or someone stops it. He doesn't know how and he doesn't know when or even if it will, but tonight he's off again, off to feed his predator.

Today would not be a good day.

Review Me...Please!! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Hey guys. This chapter two of this story. At first I hadn't thought much of continuing this story ( especially since I didn't get many revies on the first one, so I didn't think you guys really cared for it much), but it just keeps nagging at me and I really have it pretty developed in my head. This is an unsual update for me because it's the middle of the week and I'm usually busy with school or work, but I had a break and I started listening to Justin Nozuka (awesome singer, listen to his cd!) and the mellowness and somewhat depressing nature of some of the songs put me in the mood.

Once again I think this is going to be a pretty dark fic, it may get darker, more explicit and I may raise the rating later. I think it's pretty OOC for Tony I guess, but I'd like to think I'm exploring a different part of something that maybe 'could have been'. This is once again pre-IM of course, though that may be incorporated later.

Ok, well I really do hope you guys enjoy it. If you read it and like it, PLEASE REVIEW. It's encouraging when writing to know someone is enjoying what you're puttig together. Enjoy!

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He woke up to the feel of something cold and hard underneath him. When he opened his eyes he realized that he was lying on the floor of his bathroom. The lights were still on he looked and down to find himself wearing the slacks form the night before, along with the shirt, though it was all rattled and un-tucked, definitely a sign of turbulence. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, he usually never did exactly. But he knew where he'd been. It was always the same place. At least this time he was lucky enough to have made it home.

He got up from the hard flood and made his way to his bedroom. His feet were bare, his tie no where to be found and his hair tossed about in disarray. This wasn't the life he enjoyed, but it was the on he was accustomed to. He'd made a mistake the night before, he always made that mistake. He thought he would've been strong enough. For once he thought he was really going to resist his seemingly innate urges, but alas he hadn't. He'd gone, ran, flown, thrown himself at him at the speed of light and ended up in the same shit hole he always did.

His comfort zone had been disturbed once again. He sat on the floor leaning against his bed and hung his head. He couldn't do this any more, he shouldn't have been doing this for years now. His mind knew it, his heart knew it, damn it everything within him knew it, but he just couldn't figure out how he ended up in the same predicament over and over again. His whole body ached, he was used to that too though, that was nothing new. His body had been aching since the moment this whole thing started, and it rarely ceased.

The sound of the alarm going off startled him, alerting him that someone had come into the house. He slowly made his up from the floor once again and looked at the clock on his nigh stand. It was mid- afternoon, his assistant must have come over to go over some things.

This wasn't something that she could see, not something that she could know about. She knew everything about him. His daily routine, his schedule, where he should and shouldn't be at each moment of the day, how he took his coffee, hell she even knew what to do on mornings after he'd come home with somebody, but this he would never tell her. A quick shower and a change of clothes would remedy that. It always did, his mask would be put on, the smile plastered firmly on his face. His speech would be intelligent, confident, witty, and no one would suspect a thing. Everything was fine in his world, as it seemed to be.

It had grown into a routine. Remembering, or at least trying to remember, how this had all started over made him angry. He was young then, just a kid. Early, mid-teens maybe. He was a genius from a young age, grew up too fast, learned many things too soon, never really had time to be a kid- that wasn't what he'd been born for. Yet all this, at that young age had still made him extremely gullible. Fact was, he'd never really been able to interact well with kids his own; really he hadn't even had a friend close to his age until his twenties. He only knew the things his parents taught him, whether they were about life, or physics they were never really what a kid his age should have been learning. He didn't know what TV shows they liked, or what superheroes they idolized. No, it seemed that in the shielded world his parents had raised him, rich, fortunate, and able to get anything he wanted, genius even, he really didn't know anything about the real world. He'd barely ever even eaten cereal.

He hadn't understood the dangers that truly existed beyond the doors of his mansion, but he learned to get to know them real fast. When the torment started, it'd really barely happened much then, and soon after his parents died, both together, at the same time. In one split second his entire world crumpled. His mind became a broken puzzle. The future he once thought was ahead of him no longer existed. He was left in guardianship of the one person he hated the most, the person who could most easily take his already shattered life and mesh it into saw dust, left to be buried beneath something left unseen.

He went to college early too, much too early probably, but what else was he supposed to have done? In all honestly too, he was happy to leave, happy to be free if even for a short time, but at least given a moment to breathe.

College soon ended and his addiction almost immediately turned in full swing. He was confused at first; scared-he was still scared. Was this normal? No it couldn't be, of course it wasn't…right? As unseemly as it sounds, it actually took him a while to figure that out. He couldn't understand how someone who he thought of once as family, could have changed so drastically, but then again the memories of a time before that were already fading.

The façade he lived with now had slowly merged over the years. Truth be told, he was still that same kid he once was, alone, scared, and unknowing of the future, but now, at his age, he was forced to be a man, act like one, talk like one, show the whole world that he deserved the position he was thrust into. He was after all one of the most powerful and richest men in the world; a boy couldn't possibly run this company.

The minutes in the clock ticked by and he'd yet to move, yet to make any effort. He needed to get dressed, get out of those clothes. He needed to wash off the evidence- the scum- and become himself again. Pepper, his assistant, would be there soon. She wouldn't find him in his shop, so she'd search for him, or she may just ask his AI, either way she couldn't find him like that. Only one thought came to mind, through the dense haze.

Shower. Now.

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Thirty minutes later he felt close to himself again. He was making his way down the stairs from his bedroom. Pepper was sitting in the living room with her lap top waiting for him when he reached the first floor.

"Hello, Mr. Stark. Did you have a good morning?" he walked casually past her into the adjacent kitchen. He served himself some orange juice and grabbed a bagel as he answered all her questions. He tried to keep things as 'normal' as possible. In reality he wasn't even hungry. All he really wanted to do was go down to his shop and work on his cars. Loose himself in the challenge of fixing them and let his mind clear for at least a few hours.

"Is that today's schedule you're working on?"

"Yes Mr. Stark. I kept your morning empty because I knew you'd be up late due to last night's festivities. However, you do have a meeting today at three." he finished the bagel and grabbed the cup or juice and walked back to the living room where the door to his shop was.

"That's fine. I'll be down in the shop. Let me know when its two fifteen so that I can get start getting ready for it." he didn't wait for her to answer him, but instead walked towards the stairs leading to his shop. The shop, the bright, multi-colored shop. Filled with his cars, and his robots, the one place where he truly felt safe. He rarely invited others down there. The only person who ever really went down was Pepper.

He could trust Pepper. She did so much for him, it almost made him a bit sick inside. She put up with everything from him. She never passed judgment. She knew him well enough to know that it wouldn't affect him. He was who he was. She understood that. She didn't look for much more than a well paying and enjoyable job; he hoped he was at least providing one of those for her.

Truth be told, he considered Pepper more than just an employee. She was also a friend. She'd passed the test. In all the years she'd worked for him she had never lied to him. Never betrayed him, and most of all, had never hurt him. She was a saint in his eyes. She was one of the few people who didn't put on a smile or pretend to like him because of his status or his money. Of course, yes, he did pay her. She did work for him, but in those times when their relationship surpassed the normal work levels and made its way into friendship, he could see in her eyes that she genuinely cared for him.

He was almost to the first step of the descending stairs, when said person stopped him in his tracks.

"Mr. Stark?" his feet stopped mid-walk and waited for her to continue.

"You're limping sir" she put her lap top aside and got up from the couch walking towards him.

"What?" he turned and asked, having been a bit thrown off by her statement.

"You were limping, when you were walking...are you okay?" her voice was filled with caring worry as she made her way closer to him.

"Me? Yeah...I'm fine." She'd reached his spot between the stairs that descended down and the edge of the living room. The extra light from both locations was giving her a better look at him.

"Ms. Potts." She wasn't listening. She didn't believe him when he'd said he was fine. He hadn't even noticed that he'd been limping. He felt pain in his leg, but he also felt it in other parts of his body so he hadn't given it much thought. She was inspecting him now. Looking at him like a kid looks at a fish through a tank, taking in the details of his features. This was the one thing about Pepper that made him still keep her at arms length. Yes, she did care, and for that he was grateful, but unfortunately, he was afraid, she may care too much. She didn't let things go as two people who have no real obligations to each other would. 'I'm fine' 'OK' and move on with your life. This wasn't employee Pepper looking at him, this was friend Pepper.

"Ms. Potts please-"

"You have bruising." She said quietly, more to herself than him really. She was looking closely at his lower back through his shirt. His white shirt. His thin, white shirt. This was one of those moments when he felt 'genius' would not be an adequate description of him. How could he be _stupid_ enough to wear a plain white shirt today knowing what he'd looked like in the mirror that morning? He wasn't thinking straight. He usually wasn't, but still he was usually good enough to hide his lack of attentiveness to certain things.

She was now trying to lift shirt up to take a look at it. Scratch that, this wasn't 'friend' Pepper, this was 'mother' Pepper, or maybe even 'nurse' Pepper. Either way, he didn't want this from her. He couldn't let her get much closer. He needed to stop her before it became too much.

"Mr. Potts" he spoke loudly, "for the second time, I'm fine. Please. Now just let me go down to my shop and don't come down until it's time for me to start getting ready for the meeting." The look she gave him told him she'd been startled by strict words. She quickly straightened and looked at him straight in the eyes, searching, looking for any sign that could tell her something more. He knew she wouldn't let this go. He knew she'd be more alert now. Maybe she may even inquire on it again later.

Deep down he knew this probably wasn't the first time she'd noticed something. She wasn't ignorant after-all and she _was_ the one person who was closest to him. This was probably just the first time she'd decided to make a remark about it. Honestly, he didn't care. He _hoped _that she would not ask about it again. He hoped that she'd continue on with her work and pretend this hadn't happened. He had no reason to look the way he did. He had no reason for limping, or bruising or anything.

Whatever would happen, he'd have to deal with it then.

He broke the gaze that Pepper held on him and turned back towards the stairs. He took the first step cautious to not show any signs of a limp. Maybe then she'd think it was just her imagination. The bruising was just bad lighting. Whatever, as long as he could just go down to his shop and clear his mind. He turned back towards her and found her still watching him.

"Don't forget to remind of the meeting." His voice was soft then, reassuring. He'd be fine, he was telling her between the lines. They'd be fine. Don't take offense on what I said before. She nodded in her silent understanding and turned to go back to the couch and her lap top. He watched her go and once he was sure she wouldn't be watching him again, he too turned. This time he didn't care about the limp, he was almost trying to run, to get down to his haven as fast as possible and forget for just a few hours about the demons that haunted him.


End file.
